


Something About Feathers

by Sarahtoo



Series: Phrack Fucking Friday [13]
Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Dream Sex, F/M, Kinda, Masturbation, Phrack Fucking Friday, pff, wanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2019-01-09 19:48:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12283203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarahtoo/pseuds/Sarahtoo
Summary: Set post-s2e1, Jack is home following the case at Madame Lyon's house of pleasure, and he's trying to be gentlemanly.





	Something About Feathers

**Author's Note:**

> This idea came out of rewatch a couple of weeks ago - I forget who suggested it, but thanks to whoever it was! It was fun!

Jack woke with a start to the darkness of his bedroom, his sheets twisted around his legs. He was sweating heavily, his breath heaving in his chest, and his cock throbbed where it lay, fully distended and hard, against his stomach. 

He had dreamed… he’d dreamed… Lying back in the bed, he closed his eyes, trying to remember. There was something about feathers and naked flesh and the feel of beaded fabric against his lips, and—oh god. Miss Fisher. 

She’d danced a half-naked fan dance yesterday, baring her breasts—and most of the rest of her body—to the dozen or so members and employees of the club, not to mention her staff and the Victoria Police, in the persons of Hugh Collins and himself. While he admired her grit, he had not expected her to actually be nude on her upper half, and it had been all he could do to force himself not to think of her that way as he caught up on his paperwork last night. And then when they’d had their little tête-à-tête behind the curtain today, she’d actually pressed one of those breasts—soft and fragrant, its nipple obvious behind the fabric—into his face. He’d needed more than a moment to compose himself after that.

Lying in bed, Jack lifted one hand to his forehead and grabbed the sheets with the other, doing his best not to touch himself. The dream came rushing back. Miss Fisher doing her fan dance, her pink nipples hard and her tiny feathered skirt missing, in a large room that was empty but for the two of them. She had drawn it out, giving him glimpses of her breasts, her bottom, the petals of her sex, and he’d sat watching, slowly removing his suit, piece by piece. Her finale had been the same, the fans held wide so that he could see her in all her glory, but she was closer—so close that he could smell her perfume—and he could see every inch of her flesh. 

In the dream, she’d sauntered up to him, tossing the fans aside, and sat on his lap. Before he could fill his hands with her tempting curves, however, she was dressed again, in black-and-silver lace accented with beadwork, and she’d taken his face in her hands to press his mouth to her breast, urging him to take her nipple into his mouth—he could feel it, just past the barrier of the fabric. His nose was filled again with her scent, his imagination filling in the light sweat she’d worked up doing her languid performance under the hot stage lights the night before, and he’d obliged, his tongue reaching out to tempt that hardened nub.

Jack swallowed hard. Thinking about this was not helping the state of his erection, but he couldn’t stop, even though he was horrified with himself for his thoughts about his partner. He’d known he was attracted to her for a while now, but this seemed wrong, somehow. He wouldn’t wank to the memory of Phryne Fisher’s body. _She’d never know,_ his traitorous mind whispered. But he’d know, and he might not be able to keep the knowledge off of his face when he saw her again.

Smoothing out the sheets, Jack rolled to one side, hissing as his hardened flesh slid along the covers. He closed his eyes and tried to go back to sleep, but groaned as the rest of his dream played out in his mind’s eye.

In the way of dreams, his tongue on her nipple had seemed to unlock something, and the scene changed to the generously sized bed in Phryne’s boudoir, made enormous by his subconscious. She lay naked beneath him, her skin glistening with sweat, her legs tight around his hips as he sank his cock into her willing body. Her gasping cries of his name made him move faster and faster, his eyes on her breasts, which bounced with his every thrust. With a thin scream, she came, her body shuddering and her inner muscles grasping at him. He could feel his orgasm building, his balls tightening and his buttocks clenching as he cried out her name… and woke up.

Opening his eyes again, Jack cursed. No wonder he was so hard. There was nothing for it. He wasn’t going to get back to sleep this way. Throwing off the covers, he got up and shucked his pajamas as he walked through to his bathing room, his cock bobbing accusingly before him. He commanded it to shut up and calm down. He wasn’t doing that. _Where’s the harm? She can’t read your mind._ Viciously, he told the voice in his head to fuck off and kept walking.

As he moved through into what had been part of the second bedroom of his small house, Jack thanked his own foresight for the remodel that had given him an indoor water closet and bathing area. The tub and shower had felt decadent at the time, but right now, he needed the full-body spray. He cranked on the water—cold only—and tugged his towel close. Stepping under the chilly spray, he let out a low, ripe curse—it felt like needles on his back, and it was all he could do to turn and let it hit his sensitive cock.

Placing both hands on the wall beside the shower pipe, he dropped his head, letting the spray hit him full on. His erection was slowly subsiding in the chill, and his mind began to wander. Red lips, pink nipples, small breasts that would probably fit perfectly in his mouth—damn it! If he kept on this way, he’d be wasting water for nothing. He determinedly kept his mind on non-arousing topics—overdue police reports, the smell of the locker room, Prudence Stanley’s disapproving moue—as he stood in the cold water as long as he could, watching himself wilt.

When he was shivering uncontrollably, he finally called a halt to the exercise. He was almost fully limp again, and it would have to do. Toweling himself off, he raced back through to his bedroom, donned his pajamas, and ducked under the covers. He smiled smugly. It would have been incredibly embarrassing to face Miss Fisher at their next investigation, having used her undercover persona as a personal sex object. That had been a close call.

Snuggling down beneath the blankets, he closed his eyes. Before long, he was drifting into slumber.

“Come on, Jack,” her voice purred sweetly in his ear. “I think I’ve earned this, don’t you?” 

“But Miss Fisher,” he protested weakly as she unfastened his trousers, her warm hand slipping inside, “we’re partners, not lovers.”

“Only because you’re so stubborn, Jack.” 

The crisp sound she put on the end of his name shivered through him, and he set his hands on her arms, feeling her hand grasp his cock and begin to stroke. 

“Oh, Jack, why have you been keeping this from me?”

“I wasn’t sure it was what you wanted,” he replied, resting his forehead against hers and watching her hand as she pulled and twisted at his hardened flesh.

“But it was what you wanted, Jack,” she reminded him, “and after all, who’s to know if we do this sort of thing here?”

“No one,” Jack breathed as her strokes sped up. “No one will know.”

“No one will know,” she repeated, and squeezed his cock around the base of its head. With a shout, Jack came—and woke up.

He lay on his stomach this time, and the rapidly cooling wet spot beneath him was easily explained. He groaned, thumping his head down on the pillow. The woman was invading his dreams now, with her perfume and her silky skin and her _breasts_? Getting up, he whipped off the sheets and his pajamas, carrying them down the hall toward his laundry. When he caught himself on his way back to his bedroom muttering about how he had been trying to do the gentlemanly thing, but no, she wouldn’t let him, even in his subconscious, he stopped in the middle of the hall and laughed. She was driving him mad, and he supposed he was just happy to be along for the ride.

Shaking his head, he continued down the hall to remake his bed and climb back in—sans pajamas this time, as he didn’t have any clean ones. He lay on his back, one arm over his head, and considered, his lips twitching. Rolling quickly to his bedside table, he opened the drawer and withdrew a handkerchief. Since she’d given him permission, there was no reason not to take her up on it. 

Closing his eyes, he conjured the image of that fan dance, hearing the music and seeing her skin glow in the stage lights. With a sigh, he slid his hands under the covers and did what he’d been longing to do since she’d sat on his lap. 

He’d just have to work on his poker face.


End file.
